New Kind of Real
by afrai
Summary: Jess thinks she can deal with this. Bend It Like Beckham, JulesJess.


Author: afrai   
Rating: PG   
Summary: Jess thinks she can deal with this. Jules/Jess.   
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me.   
Feedback: Hit me at civilisedsyllabub yahoo.co.uk   
Notes: Thanks to Carmarthen for listening to me witter about the story while I was writing it, and making helpful suggestions on American breakfast foods and turquoiseness. 

**New Kind of Real**

Jess's mum says -- well, loads of things, enough that even her dad doesn't blame Pinky and her for not always listening. One of the things she says is that white people bring their children up differently than Asians do. What her mum really means is that white people don't do it as well, but she says "differently." 

It's the kind of thing Jess used to ignore -- her mum is always saying things like that; Jess thinks it's shite, but it's not worth arguing over. But she's beginning to wonder if there isn't something to it. 

She likes Jules a lot. Jules is her favourite person in the world, but maybe there was something different in the way she was brought up, something different in the way her family works. 

Jess loves America. It's huge and scary and nothing like she'd expected: even better, even worse. But -- it sounds stupid, like something out of a bad movie, but it's like she's left a part of herself back in England with her family. Nothing feels real. There are people and she talks to them and they talk back to her; she does stuff, she appears normal. But everything is fuzzy-edged and not-right, and time doesn't seem to move the way it did back home. When she speaks it's like dropping stones down a well, and waiting for the sound of the splash that never happens. 

She calls her parents every other night, as promised. It's the only time she feels like she understands what's going on, like everything that happens in her life is only made real when she tells her mum and dad about it. 

Maybe this is what her dad felt like when he left his home to come to England. But he couldn't afford to call his family every other night, and he never saw his parents again. Maybe he never felt real again. 

Jess tries to imagine feeling like this forever. It's all too easy. She's tried to tell Jules about this, but she's not much good at words and she wasn't brought up to talk about her feelings. Jules has the impression that she's homesick. She tells Jess that it's okay; it's understandable; she's so close to her family. She'll get over it, find her place. Jules herself is totally at sea. 

Jules says she's glad Jess is with her. Somehow that makes the feeling better. It makes Jess think maybe the unreality doesn't mean her life is crumbling around her. Maybe it's the beginning of something new, something that doesn't have to be bad. 

And she thinks: she's doing what she's always wanted to do, and her best friend is by her side. She _likes_ what she's seen of this new life. She just needs a little time to adjust, and Jules seems willing to wait the weirdness through. Jess thinks she can deal with this. 

Jess plays football in her sleep. She describes her moves over breakfast to Jules, illustrating with bread crumbs and cereal on the table. Jules listens with a sharp, intelligent, almost impersonal interest Jess likes almost as much as the easy warmth with which they joke about everything else. 

There are some really good players here. She and Jules are ordinary, more or less. Jess isn't sure if she likes this, but it is refreshing to play football like it doesn't matter whether she does it or not. Nobody cares that she's a girl who wants to play football; the issue here is whether she's good at it. She's being taken seriously as a footballer for the first time in her life. It's brilliant. 

It does mean a lot of work. It's exhausting, but Jess is having fun, though maybe 'fun' isn't the word for the feeling she gets after a good training session. It's happiness -- it couldn't be anything but that, a glow in Jess that makes her feel like light must be coming out through her skin -- but it's intensely serious. It's a feeling she thinks religion should give you, only she's never felt it in a temple. She knows it shows on her face, because when Jules looks at her there's something tender in her smile. 

She'd like to smile back with the same open affection, but her face trips over the harmless friendliness and lays itself open, and she doesn't know what's showing. 

Maybe it's too much. Maybe it's the kind of thing Pinky would scream at her for. She remembers being twelve, at a party -- family gathering, of course; sometimes Jess feels she's never known anybody but her family and their friends -- and smiling at somebody's daughter. Jess couldn't remember very clearly what she'd looked like, but she'd worn green jeans and had these huge, gorgeous dark eyes, and she'd liked rugby. She must have been the only person Jess'd ever met at a family gathering whom she'd really liked, but in the middle of a hilarious conversation about school Pinky had just barged right in and grabbed Jess's arm in an iron grip, dragging her away and hissing at her with a cold anger Jess hadn't understood at the time. 

She understands it now, but it doesn't matter anymore. Jess at twelve had been crushed; furious because what Pinky thought mattered to her but she couldn't, _wouldn't_ show it; bewildered because nobody would _explain_. Jess now is an adult, alone and far away from her family, and she gets to want what she wants because nobody cares. She's just another girl among millions, not somebody's daughter or sister or niece. No too-sharp eyes of people who know her too well, no sudden fingers digging into her arm. 

She gets to look at Jules and think about touching her face. The only people who matter here are Jess and Jules. Jess likes it that way. 

Jules takes Jess shopping. It's a pact; both of them promise to drag the other out to buy clothes once in a while, because apart from things like football boots and glittery things for clubbing in neither of them much likes shopping. But being as it's sort of an essential thing, it has to be done. 

Jules is better at living up to the pact than Jess is, mostly because Jess isn't the one who buys glittery things for clubbing in. She's not used to it. A lifetime spent having your mum buying clothes for you, whether you're present at the clothes-buying or not. It's given Jess an automatic indifference to shopping, which Jules tries to expunge by taking her to shops that sell crazy Japanese baby tees and rhinestone-studded jeans, and stuff Jess doesn't even know the words for. 

"Do normal people wear this?" she says, pulling her face into an expression of exaggerated incredulity that makes Jules fall about laughing. 

"You'd look good in it!" Jules insists. 

"It's a tube top with feathers on, Jules," says Jess, not bothering to hide the laughter in her voice. She tickles Jules's nose with a feather, and Jules pushes her away, shrieking. 

"Just try it," says Jules. "Bet you -- ten dollars you like how you look in it." 

Jess makes a face, starts returning the top on the rack. It's _turquoise_. Jess has worn bright colours before, she's Indian, but she's grown-up now. She figures she gets to fill her wardrobe with grey and black if she wants to. 

"Twenty," says Jules. "What, are you scared?" 

"If you start making chicken noises, I'll hit you," Jess warns. 

"It won't kill you," says Jules. "If you're wrong, you get something nice to wear, instead of all those endless football jerseys. And if you're right -- which you _won't_ be -- you get twenty dollars. You win either way." 

"What's wrong with jerseys?" says Jess. She's still holding the top. 

"Nothing, in moderation," says Jules. At least she doesn't say anything about how Jess wears them nearly every day; just quirks her lips as a reminder of all the times they've argued over that. "But you can't wear one to a club." She taps the hanger significantly. 

"Give it a go," she says. "One try. Then I'll leave you alone." 

Jess rolls her eyes. Jules grins, certain of success. 

"Twenty dollars," Jess says, pushing off. 

"You won't ask for it," Jules yells triumphantly after her. 

Jess doesn't, of course. Jules buys her a milkshake after -- Jess insists on it, to make up for manipulating her into buying feathered tops. The gesture is spoilt somewhat by Jules's dipping her chips into the milkshake whenever she thinks Jess isn't looking, so Jess retaliates by stealing Jules's chips. 

She thinks, suddenly, that she's more comfortable with Jules than she is with anybody else in the world. More importantly, she likes the person she is with Jules. Jules lets her be -- not just herself, but the self she wants to be. 

Her parents would not approve of the top, but her parents aren't here. 

She and Jules share the rest of the milkshake, and Jess thinks about holding Jules's hand as they're leaving the restaurant. 

She's not ready yet. But she will be soon. 

She's not sure if Jules will ever be ready for that, if she even wants it, but they've got time to work things out. She doesn't worry about it too much. 

She e-mails Joe often. He's not much of a typist, and his spelling is hit-and-miss, but she likes the person that's unfolding with the words. Joe has a great sense of humour. His e-mails are a jumble of enthusiastic film reviews, anecdotes that make her laugh, detailed reports of what's going on with the Harriers. She spends whole nights chatting to him, enjoying the feeling of seeing inside a stranger's mind. 

She likes him a lot. She's not sure what it means that she can't always remember what he looks like. She and Jules both have pictures, pinned up in the open where the world can see them. Sometimes Jess looks at them and there's a moment when she just doesn't recognise him, before the knowledge clicks and she realises whose face it is. 

Jules's face is infinitely familiar. Jess can trace it in the darkness of her closed eyes, every gold-lit line. In her mind's eye, Jules is always in sunlight. 

There used to be an awkwardness between Jess and Joe, a sort of expectation hanging around their words whenever they spoke, on the phone or through the computer. The better they got to know one another, the more the feeling faded. They haven't actually said anything to each other, but Jess thinks one day Joe is going to mention a date with some girl, off-handedly. Jess will squeal and ask questions and recommend restaurants, and it'll be okay. She thinks she's getting the hang of this personal relationships business. 

She isn't sure what's going to happen, but she already knows what she's going to say. Even if it isn't that easy . . . she'll survive. She'd thought a million times, before she got here, that the world was going to end -- if her parents found out that she'd joined a football team; if they found out she was wearing shorts; if she learned how to cook; if she and Joe didn't work out. But if there's one thing she's learnt since she first met Jules, it's that _messy_ doesn't mean _over_. It doesn't even have to mean _bad_. 

Jules changed her life. She likes the thought. It fits. 

Jules changes it again, one day. It's an ordinary day like any other, until Jules kisses her. 

The kiss is soft and dry, a sweet brush of lip against lip, and it's like a kick in the gut. Jess feels it all over her, a jolt of pure sensation. It feels like every hair on her body is standing up. 

Jules looks just as surprised, her eyes huge, the rest of her face squeezing tight as if to make space for the shock. Before she knows she's doing it Jess is laughing at the look on Jules's face. For a moment Jules looks like she wants to hit her, and then she's laughing too. 

"Shut _up_," says Jules breathlessly, between giggles. 

"I -- I didn't say anything," gasps Jess, doubling over. Her stomach hurts. She can't see through the tears in her eyes. It feels like she's dying. 

"You're not supposed to _do_ that," Jules says. She's talking in that giddy, oxygen-deprived way that means she's not really paying attention to what she's saying, just protesting for the sake of the joke. "You're not supposed to -- I was so worried! I was freaking out, I really was -- Jess, be serious!" 

Jess would feel guilty, but Jules is laughing too, and nothing's changed. Jules likes her too. From here, her face on fire and her lungs cramped for lack of air, it feels inevitable, even though she hadn't really known for sure till now. But it's all right, it really is, and somehow it's not as big a surprise as Jess would've thought. After all, she and Jules belong together. She's always known that. 

It's something of a relief to find that Jules knows it too. 

"Jess!" 

"But the look. On your face," Jess pants, and that starts them off again. 

"I'm serious," Jules says, when they're nearly done laughing. Jess is still breathing in little hiccups, and she's warm all over, euphoria curling in her belly. She flops down, head on Jules's shoulder, and grins to herself. "I thought -- all the girls were saying things, and you didn't seem to notice, and Joe -- " 

Jess feels Jules tense up, suddenly awkward. She doesn't like that, so she pokes her in the side until Jules shrieks and squirms away. 

It's so easy. It doesn't have to be hard, thinks Jess, and the thought feels a little crazy, foolish and foolhardy. Like a daydream. Real life isn't like this, but then this isn't anything like what used to be real life, is it? She's in America with her best friend. She's going to play professional football like she's always wanted. She's free. And this is real, so . . . you can redefine real life, Jess thinks, and that does feel right. 

Partly to prove the point to the watching universe, but mostly because she wants to, she curls her hand around Jules's. Jules turns her palm up immediately, threading her long fingers through Jess's. 

There are no words for this: not words that would work, anyway. Everything Jess thinks of saying makes her want to laugh, and her abdominal muscles twinge in warning. She's not going to be able to say the right things, but it's all right. Jules will understand. 

"I like Joe," says Jess, "but I like you better. You know that." 

Jules breathes in, as if she's preparing for a fight, but Jess squeezes her hand and the breath goes out of her in a whoosh. 

"Yeah," says Jules. "I guess I do." 

They probably look really stupid, Jess thinks, grinning at each other like a pair of maniacs. The great thing about looking like a fool with your best friend is that it's part of the fun. 

"You're really pretty," Jules says abruptly, and this time it's Jess who leans in to take the kiss. 

Lying on the bed in sunshine: sometimes it rains here, but Jess knows in years to come she will remember only sun-drenched days when she thinks of this time. Jess is lying on her side, staring into Jules's eyes like every romance cliche she's every heard of, and suddenly she's so frightened she can't breathe. 

Jules notices, because she always notices. So breathtakingly strange, suddenly, to be seen like this. To be _known_. 

"Jess?" Jules says the name like she likes the feel of it on her tongue. Somehow it makes Jess even more scared. "What's -- are you okay?" 

"Yeah," says Jess, though she means no. This is terrible. She has no experience to make this bearable, she doesn't -- what do they think they're doing? 

She has no way of dealing with this; she hasn't got a _map_; and she's just remembered that she'll never be able to talk to her parents about this, and now she's a mess of panic -- 

"Jess! Jess, calm down," says Jules, half-laughing, all worried. Her eyes are the sweetest thing in the world. Jess wants to know what they'll look like when she's old and the skin around them is creased with laughter lines. 

She tenses. It's like a horror movie. It's like one of those dreams where she's freefalling endlessly, and -- the extent to which she doesn't know what she's doing is almost laughable. She doesn't feel like laughing. 

Oh, God, she's just a complete teenager, isn't she? 

"Jess," says Jules, and now her voice is uncertain. "You're sort of scaring me here . . ." The tone is light, trying to make this into a joke, because they're Jules and Jess and what they do is laugh. 

It's become enough of a habit that Jess smiles automatically, and it feels real. And this is real. It's realer than anything ever, more grown-up than anything Jess has done yet. The fact that she's doing it with Jules makes it worse. 

She's not afraid it will end, though that's just as much in the realm of possibility as this, Jess and Jules in bed with their faces so close they can feel each other's breath. But breaking up is just unimaginable right now. Jess tries to imagine not being friends with Jules anymore, pictures their breaking up over Jules's deciding to support France one day, and giggles. 

"You are so weird," Jules says, relieved. 

Jess is scared of this not ending. This could go on forever. This is happening. 

And it's not actually real, can't be, not the way her parents' marriage is real, not the way Pinky and the rest of her family are real. Jess could go on doing this forever, and she'll be intangible forever, lost in this delusion. 

The feeling will pass, but for now Jess doesn't want to be free. She wants to be home. She wants to be safe. 

"I just -- " she says, because Jules deserves an explanation. But she can't find one that doesn't sound stupid. 

If you can redefine real life like this, she wants to say, what's to stop you from making anything mean whatever you want? Even the really important things. If there aren't any limits, how do you know when you're happy? How do you know what's really going on? 

It doesn't even make sense in her head. 

"I think I'm having angst," she says. Saying it makes her feel better, weirdly. It was something her parents used to say. They'd picked up the word from somewhere, TV or from listening to her and Pinky or something, and they seemed to feel it was a sort of disease their young had contracted from the West. If Pinky was on the outs with her boyfriend and didn't feel like coming down for dinner: "Oh, she's having angst again," Mum would say, exasperated but tolerant, and Dad would huff in acknowledgement, as if everything had been explained. 

Jess supposes they still say that. She just isn't home to hear them say it. They're going on without her, just as she's going on without them. 

She has an actual life separate from her family. England doesn't have to be home. It can be . . . here. 

Welcome to grown-up life, Jess. You and your best friend are in love, and you can do anything you want to do. And maybe the world will end, but you can make a new one. 

Yeah. Wow. 

Jules is still looking for something appropriate to say. Maybe she thinks this -- Jules and Jess, fragile and wondering -- will end if she says the wrong thing. She ought to know better than that. 

Jess squeezes Jules's hand in reassurance, and says a thing. She's found that whether it's the right thing or not isn't an issue. It doesn't matter what thing you say. You can always say something more. The thing about conversations in this new world is that you're allowed to keep on going with them if the first line doesn't work out. 

"I think I'm scared," she says. "But hopeful." 

She tries to make the delivery a bit over the top, like she's quoting something that isn't supposed to be funny, but mysteriously is. Miraculously, Jules understands. She smiles to show she sees the joke, but her voice when she speaks is just serious enough. 

"That's not a bad place to be," she says. 

"Yeah," Jess agrees. The knot of fear in her belly is relaxing, if not quite dissipating yet. She can see how it'll be all the tomorrows they have, the breakfasts they'll take together, the goofy things they'll laugh about, the matches they'll play. A life they'll live. 

Not having a map to life is real, Jess reminds herself. Just because her upbringing taught her different doesn't mean it was right. If she'd followed everything her upbringing had taught her, she'd still be at ho -- in her family's house in England, reading law and probably getting married to someone boring, someone who'd think life could be planned. She thinks she likes not having a map better. 

"I'm a bit frightened too," Jules confides, and Jess smiles. She can have this for her own. 

"It's okay," she says. 

And it really is. 

_End._


End file.
